


I Always Do

by Catchclaw



Series: We Can Make The World Stop [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas goes AWOL. Dean deals with it. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Always Do

Remember that stupid song, “How Do You Talk To An Angel?”

You want my advice?

Don't.

Just fucking get up, walk away, whatever. Run if you have to. Just--don't.

Because angels are a pain in the ass. All of 'em. They all think they know better than you do, that you're just some second-class jagoff that their dad made ‘cause he got bored on a rainy day. They see us as like the talking equivalent of play doh, or something. We're easy targets, like living G.I. Joes, to them. Pull an arm off, lose the head, that's ok. There's always more where that came from.

Watch out for those bastards.

Even the ones that seem cool. Decent. Different.

Especially them.

Ok.

So I'm alone out in Iowa or Nebraska or one of those flattop states, just corn and cows and worn-down dudes who wear hunters' orange out of season.

One minute, it's me and Cas.

Next minute, it's just me, wandering around like a frickin' moron in the dark, looking for some jackass angel who's pulled a Baby Jessica, or something, like up and disappeared out of nowhere, which, ok, angels can do, but Cas hasn't just popped off like that in ages. Especially without his shoes. Or his shirt.

So I'm stomping through these fields yellin' his name and waking up all the dogs and the cows and stuff and--nothing. Not a peep. No trace. He's just--gone.

Which is weird, because the last time I saw him, he was all blissed out and asleep with that dopey smile on his face, half in the sheets and half out. He gets like weirdly hot sometimes. Always kicks off the damn blanket, even when he's not sleeping, even when he's just like laying next to me and watching me sleep or whatever. Maybe he prays over me. Hell, I don't know. But I wake up in the middle of the night freezing my ass off because he's booted the blanket on the floor again, and I'll bitch and he'll roll over and like fold himself around me, all warm and self-satisfied and--

Huh.

Anyway, he's AWOL and I'm out here by myself and now I'm pissed more than worried. Mad because there is just no good reason for him to act like such a bitch, especially at five o'clock in the morning. Idiot.

I stomp back to the motel, trampling shit and getting burrs inside my boots which is just friggin' awesome and makes me feel so much better, so happy to be chasing after his dumb ass in stupid Iowa or whatever. God.

I get back in the room and my phone is going crazy, buzzing and humming and trying to dance across the floor, except the stupid duct tape I used to put it back together after Cas fucking winged it into the wall last week is stuck to the carpet, so the thing is like having a seizure and trying to rip itself apart again. Maybe it liked being smashed. I don't know.

So I yank it off the floor and there are like 10 messages from Sam. I call him back without listening to any of them.

It only rings once and then he says: "Dean?!"

"Who else would it be?" I growl, poking my fingers on one of the stupid burrs. Ow.

"Well somebody else answered a little while ago," he huffs, and I can hear him scowling.

"What?"

"Someone. Who was not you. Answered the phone. Earlier," Sam says, like I'm three years old or something. 

"Wha--?" I start to say, and then I think: huh. 

"Was it Cas?" I ask, casual, trying to sound like I don't give a shit.

Sammy doesn't say anything for a minute. Then: "Maybe? I don't know. It just sounded like somebody was Darth Vadering into the phone."

"Wait, like 'Luke, I am your father' Vader or Jar-Jar Binks Vader?"

"What?! Dude, I do not understand how your mind works!" he barks and for a second, he kinda sounds like Cas. Kinda.

"No, jackass," Sam says, and now he's really pissed. "Like heavy breathing Vader. Like really deep and out of breath."

Uh oh.

"Wait," he says, suspicious now, "isn't Cas with you? Why don't you ask him if he--?"

"No, Sammy," I say, clapping my hand over my face and fuck is it early and damn if I'm not tired from fucking around with Cas all night--

Huh. From fucking Cas, anyway. That was new.

Shit.

"Dean?" Sam says in that Glenn Close "I will not be ignored" way that he has. "What's going on?"

I shake my head. Still doesn't make any sense. Why would Cas give a shit if Sam called? He calls all the damn time.

Which is why the phone is sticking to my hand, the tape all gooey and torn, already.

"Well, did you tell whoever it was to go fuck himself, or something?" I ask, falling back on the bed. Into the messed up sheets. The pillow that still smells like Cas, like ozone and righteousness and the stupid Old Spice that he's fucking obsessed with.

Sammy scoffs. "Pfft. No. I just asked if it was you."

"Yeah," I say, closing my eyes.

"I just said like, hey baby, is that you, or whatever, and then the line went dead."

I sit up.

No no no. No.

"Sammy," I say, and now I'm the one who sounds like a preschool teacher. "Tell me. Exactly. What did you say?"

"Dean, what's--?"

"Just! What did you say?"

He sighs, pissy as hell. "I told you. I said, 'hey, baby, is that you? What's with the heavy breathing?' Something like that."

I push my face into his pillow. Fuck.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on or--

I cut him off. "Fine. Everything's fine, Sammy, Cas and I just had a little miscommunication, is all. If you hear from him"--if he shows up at your door with a fucking flaming sword and tries to cut your dick off--"call me, ok?" And I hang up before he can respond.

I drop the phone, press my palms into my eyes. Try not to panic. For a second I think maybe it really was all just a wacky misunderstanding, maybe my life really is a sitcom. Or maybe his angel Bat Phone rang because some huge battle is brewing in heaven and so they needed him to--

Yeah. I don't think so.

"Cas!" I yell. "I know you can hear me, you bastard! Get your winged ass down here NOW!"

Nothing. I know I'm not showing the proper respect or whatever, but goddamn it, I'm--

"Cas!" I shout again. "We need to talk! C'mon, don't--!" and my anger gets caught in something else for a second. "Please, Castiel, I need to--" I stop because, honestly? I don't know what I need. Except him.

Which, Jesus, does that sound lame. And makes me feel like crap.

Shit.

I get up. Put myself on autopilot and start packing. My stuff. The few things that are his. Like this ancient Spiderman trade he's been carrying around for no good reason. I’ve never seen him read it or even look at the pictures. Just likes to have it with him in the car. In the room at night. No idea why. But it's his, so I shove it into my duffel, tuck it under my clean shirts.

By seven, I'm almost 50 miles out of town. Headed west, towards Sam.

Which makes sense. That's where it all went wrong in the first place.

**  
You always get a last-second reprieve, on TV.

On TV, it's always like: "Mrs. Johnson, you have six months to live" or whatever. And everybody cries and says goodbye and then, at the last second, Dr. McCoy finds a miracle cure and she doesn't die and they all laugh because they'd written her obituary and now she she's so not dead.

Yeah. Doesn't happen that way in real life. No magic pill to save the day. Hell, no magic, period. What's done is done. Apparently.

Which, at the time, was a little more final than I was ready for, to be honest.

I haul myself off of Bobby's couch and wander into the kitchen. Peer out the window, and it's dark outside all of a sudden. God, it's gonna pour soon.

So stuff happens when you're waiting for death like that. Na, that's not it. Stuff happens when the people who love you are waiting for you to die. When they know it's coming and there's nothing they can do to stop it.

I don't blame Sam. Don't blame myself, either. Shit happens.

But when I came back and he was with Ruby it kinda stung, like a cut you think has healed and then you get salt in it and it bites like a bitch until you get it washed out.

So yeah, it wasn't a high point. Not really Christmas card material. But whatever. I got over it pretty fucking quick. There was more important crap to worry about than how I was feeling or something, like hey: how do I avoid becoming some angel's muppet-y bitch, like the heavenly version of Kermit the Frog?

Anyway, we have a clear division of labor on the sappy. That's Sammy's department, not mine.

I lean my elbows on the counter, watch the clouds hauling ass across the sky. 

Sometimes I wonder if he's forgotten, though.

But this whole "baby" bullshit that apparently sent Cas off the deep end--it's nothing, not really. I doubt that Sam even remembers, that he knows what he's doing when he calls me that now, in jest, because you can only call someone a jerk so many times in a given conversation. Variety, spice of life and all that.

Hell, even "bitch" gets old, after a while. Ok, a long while, and I haven't actually found the point at which it happens, but I'm sure it will. Get old. At some point.

But the first time that Sam kissed me, I mean like really kissed me, that's what he said. What he called me.

Put his giant mitts around my head, pushed his face down to mine. He smelled like beer and Ivory soap. "Oh baby," he said against my mouth. "Let me take care of you. Please, baby." And he kinda waited, didn't move or breathe until I said, "Yeah, ok, Sammy, ok," and then he sort of fell into my mouth and I grabbed his shirt in my fists and that was--

That's how it was, for a while. Until I died, anyway. 

I close my eyes for a second. Listen to the shutters rattling in the wind.

And yeah, maybe it’s weird that I still use it, that I still say “baby” like that, in bed. But I did that way before me and Sam. It’s always been like one of my go-to terms. ‘Cause you develop kind of a little vocabulary around stuff like that, kinds get into a routine, you know. What words you say when your mouth is free. When you want 'em to know that you're right there, with them, when you want to remind yourself that there's a place where you start and they end.

Yeah.

And hell, if I'm thinking about what I'm sayin', if I'm contemplating word choice when I'm kissing someone--when somebody's kissing me--then something's wrong, 'cause that's not normal. To be all stuck in your head at a time like that.

I tried to explain that to Cas, and look how that turned out. Three weeks of the silent treatment from an angel. Awesome.

It would be easier if he'd just come down here and yell at me or something. Maybe throw some shit at my head. I might even let him punch me. Once. He could rail and carry on and generally act like a bitch for a while and get it out of his damned system and then we could have make-up sex and he could bite my shoulder and leave a mark and I could let him do whatever the fuck he wants to me and everything would be like, fine.

But no. Never that simple.

At least Sam has finally quit bugging me about it. He knows I'm not telling him the whole story, but he's also smart enough to know that if I wanted to, then I would. Otherwise, he should just shut the fuck up.

Granted, it took like two weeks of him being an ass about it and me not responding for him to get a clue, but whatever. He learns, eventually.

So now he's just hiding his frowns behind books or his laptop or a beer and I'm pretending not to notice and Bobby's ignoring us both and it's working just great. Just fucking great.

I’m going stir-crazy out here. Waiting. Just waiting. Because it’ll be Cas’ choice, whether we talk or not. I got no control over this. He’s driving now.

I stand up, itchy to move, ready to fucking do something; hell, anything is better than just sitting around like this.

Then I realize how quiet it is.

Bobby is dozing and Sam’s upstairs knee deep in some ancient Aramain bullshit.

That's it.

I grab my jacket and open the back door as quiet as I can and slip outside to pray. Like really pray this time, because I'm getting a little desperate, which sucks, and I've burned through all my anger and now I'm just really fucking sad. Which is--

I skirt out a ways from the house and sorta hide myself between a minivan and a rusted-out Ford. It's starting to spit and the sky is way darker than it should be this time of day.

I get set, kinda plant myself in the ground, close my eyes and I do it. I try to talk to him, try to keep it in my head at first, what I'm saying. But. Nothing.

That's the worst part about all of this. I know he can hear me. I know he can see me, if he wants to. So what the fuck is the problem?

"Look," I whisper, and god, do I feel like an idiot. Yelling is so much easier. "I'm sorry, ok, I should have told you, or something." I sigh, push the rain out of my face. "I shouldn't have made such a thing out of it, is all, Cas. It's really--it's not a big deal, and I--"

"That is your problem, Dean," he says and Jesus, he's right friggin' behind me. I turn and he's just standing there, looking all lordly and detached. Like he used to. Thought he'd lost that look for good.

"What, was the thunderbolt on a lunch break?" I snap, and wow, not what I'd planned to say, but it just kind of comes out.

He narrows his eyes until they're like lasers and he says, "You think only of yourself, Dean. That is your problem."

"Cas," I say, reaching for him more out of instinct than anything else. He pulls a Batman and reappears behind me again. Out of reach this time.

"What is it you wish to say to me?" he asks in his Angel of the Lord voice, like really loud and angry and for a second I'm afraid he's gonna smite me or something because he. is. pissed.

"I--" and for all the time I've had to think about this, you'd think I'd be ready, but with him here, right in front of me, I--

"Yes," he says, the rain falling over his eyes. "As I said. You think only of yourself, first, last, and always. Perhaps"--and his voice does something funny, kind of cracks, a little--"perhaps you should consider how your actions might affect those who love--" and he kind of stutters and now he sounds like Cas.

Looks more like him, too, all of sudden, like the dude who was mine, for a while. Like the one who sang "Can't Fight This Feeling" with no sense of irony, with no idea that it's a fucking terrible song and that he should have been mocking me for listening to it more than once a day and not encouraging me by looking at me as he sang. Meaning ever damn stupid girly word of it.

Goddamn it.

"Castiel," I say, in the way I know he likes, low and soft and sweet. I take a step closer and he doesn't bolt. "Cas. Please."

He wavers.

“I should have told you. I’m sorry,” I tell him, and I mean it. I fucked up. I know this.

He squints at me, water sliding down his nose. “What should you have told me, Dean?”

I--

Do I have to say it?

I wait for a second but he doesn't move. Just keeps peering into my face. He's waiting, too.

"I shoulda told you about Sam," I say, trying to hold his eye but I chicken out and look at the ground instead. "About me and him. Because it was no big deal," I say, quickly, and now that I've started I just want to get it all out so I never have to say it again. "Really. It was like--another life, practically."

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't disappear, either, so I figure it's going ok.

"And it--it's been over for a long time, and I--"

"Dean," he says again, and god I've missed hearing him say my name like that. "Whatever--happened between you and Sam, that is your business."

"Okay," I say. Wary. But so far so good.

"But--what I cannot understand is why you did not simply tell me the truth. I would not have judged you. I may not have understood, but I would have tried." And now when he looks at me, it hurts. "I do not understand why you attempted to hide something from me. Would you explain that?"

Um.

"What I cannot understand," he says, his voice getting louder, "is how you can share your flesh with me so willingly and yet attempt to conceal matters such as this from me with such ease. Without a second thought." His eyes meet mine. "Because you lie too easily, Dean. With too much practice. To me. To yourself."

And I’m holding my breath, for some reason.

“I do not know how I can–-why I would choose to-–“ and he fumbles, looking for the right word, and I sure as fuck am not gonna help him out here.

“Why I would choose,” he says finally, carefully, “to allow any creature to come so close to me whom I knew I could not trust. Who I know is capable of lying to me, of concealing things from me. Who chooses to lie to himself.”

I feel my shoulders sag because, yeah. I’m all those things.

We kind of stare at each other for a minute and I’ve had enough of these conversations to know where this is going and no. No no no.

“Cas,” I say. One last gambit. Ok, a truth. “I love you.”

He smiles at me, sad, and it’s even scarier than the I-will-smite-thee look he was wearing earlier.

“I know,” he says. Nods.

And now we’re both fucking soaked and–shit.

I reach out for him, close enough to touch, and he doesn’t even bother blinking away, just takes a step back. Takes his arm away.

“Dean,” he says. Official. Back to business. “I will, of course, continue to aid you and Sam in your attempt to prevent the Apocalypse.” He stops.

“But?” I say, and god I sound so tight and twisted that I have to look away from his face.

“But,” he says. “We cannot-–be as we were. Before. Not now.”

I nod furiously. I don’t know why.

“Cas,” I say again, and I’m so not going to cry in front of this bastard. Who I love. Who loves me, I think, but. That’s not enough. Not right now.

“Goodbye,” he says. Raises his hand and. He’s gone.

On TV, the patient always gets saved at the last possible moment. Magic pill, miracle cure. Done.

Or like the governor calls with a last-second reprieve and the innocent man gets out of the chair, just in time for the last commercial break.

Yeah. Doesn't happen that way in real life. What's done is done. Apparently.

At least for now, I tell myself as I trudge back up to the house, concocting my cover story about what I was doing out here. Why I’m soaked. Why my eyes are so fucking red.

Hell.

I’ll come up with something.

I always do.


End file.
